A Christmas Card
by Lucy H
Summary: [Holby City] Tom tries to explain his feelings to Anita.


_Anita,_

Tom paused, and put the lid on his pen. Writing Christmas cards was meant to be easy; something that you did without thinking, just a little gesture to let someone know you cared. But what if you cared too much? What if all you had to say couldn't quite fit inside one little card, what if you wanted to be there when she opened it, what if you wished you'd never left…?

No point in thinking back over past mistakes, he told himself sternly. You made your choice, now you have to live with it. You had a choice between her and your career, and you chose your career. It wasn't meant to be. Get over it.

_I was thinking of you the other day…_

His pen paused again. He hadn't just been thinking of her 'the other day'. He'd been thinking about her ever since he walked out of that door, since he got on that plane, and more since he got back to Holby, since he walked through the corridors that still contained echoes of her footsteps… 

For heaven's sake, pull yourself together! This is getting ridiculous. You left, she didn't, it's over. 

But that didn't stop him thinking about her, it didn't stop him wanting to be able to turn back the clock and choose Anita over his career, because that was what it came down to in the end. It all came down to the fact that he couldn't stand her being more successful that he was, he couldn't stand the fact that he wasn't working, he couldn't cope with just having Anita, he wanted both.

He threw that card into the bin, and started again. 

_Anita,_

Again, he couldn't think what to write. "I miss you" seemed too trivial. She'd either disregard it entirely, passing it off as a comment people make when they want to comfort someone but don't feel anything, or she'd disagree, you can't miss me, if you missed me, then why did you leave, why don't you come back? And Tom didn't know. He didn't know why he had left.

All the feelings he had felt then, all his reasonings for leaving, they'd all crumbled, leaving him broken, leaving him feeling like he'd lost something important, something special… someone special. Anita. 

He could see her now, sitting in front of him, laughing at him for trying so hard. "You don't need to bother, you know," the imaginary Anita teased him. "You're probably not even going to send this card, why are you even bothering to think about it?"

"Because I can't stop thinking about it… about you…" Tom mumbled, closing his eyes to block out the vision. The black hair and blue eyes faded away into nothingness, and he was alone again. 

It's different here without you… 

He couldn't even begin to count the problems with that comment. He crumpled the card up in his fist and threw it across the room, feeling hot, angry tears begin to well in his eyes. Not tears of sadness, but tears of frustration, knowing exactly what he wanted, and not being able to have it – have her. 

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you left." The imaginary Anita was back. This time she looked upset; she looked as sad as he felt. Tom reached out a hand to touch hers, to try and comfort her. His hand touched… air. This wasn't real; she wasn't there. He was dwelling on the past, he needed to try and move on.

_I can't believe I've ruined this relationship…_

Not true. You can believe it, he told himself. You can believe it because you don't know a good thing when you have one. Anita was the best thing ever to happen to you, she was young and beautiful and for some crazy reason she adored you, and you couldn't handle it. You couldn't stand being happy. What the hell is the matter with you?

The imaginary Anita shrugged. "You need help." No, Anita wouldn't say that. She wouldn't dismiss him like that. She never had done before, she'd never once been too harsh with him… yes she had. She had. That last night in America, she had shouted at him; she had yelled, and he had yelled, and then they'd both gone their separate ways and cried.

_I'm sorry it ended the way it did…_

They had been having a particularly vicious argument, it had started from nothing as usual, and suddenly, for no real reason, she had snapped. "If you're not happy, then just say so!" A flash of blue eyes had signalled her anger.

He impatiently dragged a hand through his hair. "I never said I wasn't happy!" 

"You didn't have to say anything; I can tell! You don't want to be here, you'd rather be back in Holby, you'd rather be working, you can't stand seeing me working and you…" 

"What, so you're psychic now?"

"For God's sake, just give me a straight answer for once in your life!"

"It's alright for you, you have your job, everything's on your terms…"

"What are you trying to say? Are you not happy?" She was raging, openly furious, but there was real anxiety behind her question.

"I didn't say that." He was quieter now.

"If you're not happy, then you know what you can damn well do!" She glowered at him, shooting daggers from her eyes. "If you care more about your career than about me, then just go." He glared back at her for a few moments, before picking up his wallet and phone and storming out. 

He had paced up and down outside for nearly half an hour, feeling his anger subside into regret, feeling his heart begin to shatter, slowly, painfully, as he heard her sobbing inside. He would have given anything to be able to go back in there and take her in his arms and tell her that he had just been angry, that he hadn't meant it at all. But he couldn't. 

_There was a patient the other day that reminded me of you, she had been in a car crash…_

"Are you saying I look like someone from a car crash?" the imaginary Anita teased, flipping her hair over her shoulder in mock indignation. "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, y'know."

He smiled slightly, and leant over the card to cross out that last line. When he looked back up, she was gone. "She did make me think of you," he insisted softly. She was young, she was pretty, and she had an older husband who loved her an awful lot. And even Ed had commented on the similarities – not nicely, he certainly wasn't making it any easier, but he had pointed out the similarities. And Tom had never tried harder in his life to get that woman to pull through. 

He always tried hard; he always wanted them to live, to get better, that was why he was a doctor after all. But this time he had been battling harder than ever to save her, because he had been thinking that this could have been Anita. She could so easily have been Anita, and the idea that he could lose Anita like that man had nearly lost his wife… and then the realisation had hit him that he had already lost her. He had already lost her, and he couldn't get her back.

_I'm sorry._

Short and simple. He was sorry. Sorry that he'd ruined the best relationship he'd ever been in, sorry that he was probably going to end up spending the rest of his life alone, but, above all, sorry that he'd hurt her. When he had heard her crying, it had hurt him more than anything else ever could have done. The idea of having hurt her was the most painful feeling that he had ever experienced. And part of, most of, the pain he was feeling, was guilt. 

But 'sorry' wasn't enough. He glared at nothing as he crumpled up yet another card, and threw it towards the bin.

"You missed." He knew that it wasn't really her; he knew that she was just in his imagination. But it was so tempting to just believe that it might be her. When he looked up, he didn't see anyone. Outside, just passing in the corridor, he could see Ric and Diane. They were laughing together and looked happy. 

Tom sighed. He was sorry about Diane, too. He was sorry for using her to get back at Anita. But, he reflected to himself as he saw Diane move slightly closer to Ric, giggling and obviously flirting with him, she obviously hadn't suffered too badly. He turned away, but not before he got the chance to see the two of them kissing. 

He threw his pen across the room, annoyed. Not annoyed at Ric and Diane, but annoyed at… life. He wanted to change the wording of the card; he wanted to beg Anita not to move on too quickly, or, if he was honest, never to move on, to follow him back to England… He had followed her to America, couldn't she follow him back? 

_Are you still angry?_

She probably was. She was the one who had told him to leave. It was her decision to end it, not his. It was probably best not to write.

He put the card in a drawer. He didn't send it.


End file.
